


like a clue of golden thread,  most excellently ravelled

by Yuudan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A tiny bit, Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Crack, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Humor, Lucius hates his life, Malfoy Manor, Narcissa is about to murder something, Peacocks, crackfic, he's so done, i'm not even ashamed, mostly hair-related, the death eaters are big children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 13:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuudan/pseuds/Yuudan
Summary: “Lucius,” the Dark Lord speaks, breaking the stiff silence. There's a glint of malice in his eyes, which never bodes well. Lucius freezes. “You look rather frazzled, my friend. Could perhaps our presence here be the cause?”He gestures expansively around the table to clarify the use of the word 'we'.Do all these dirty murderers bother you, Lucius? Do the insane werewolf or the blood-thirsty scum make you uncomfortable?“Far from it, my Lord. I can only hope that my small contribution can be of some use,” he's actually surprised the words make it past his teeth at all – they're so violently untrue that he almost finds it offensive how easily they come out. It feels like his tongue should be on fire at the very least.





	like a clue of golden thread,  most excellently ravelled

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a tumblr post by accio-shitpost that literally just said lucius malfoy and the bad hair day. It wasn't really a prompt but I thought, well that sounds like the entirety of book 7, and before I knew it I had 3000 words written.
> 
> Titles comes from a poem by Richard Lovelace called Song to Amarantha, that she would dishevel her hair
> 
>  
> 
> So... I regret nothing.

 

Before it all goes sideways, Lucius' life is a pleasant walk in the park, though at the time it doesn't seem that way. He considers himself a man who doesn't ask much from life: keeping a steady influence over the Minister, raising a decent heir, and being better-looking than his political rivals.

Now, a year-long stint in Azkaban and the start of a war later, he sees he's been taking a lot for granted. His life _before_ has been nothing but a series of affable dinner parties, polite social manoeuvers and vaguely-phrased gossip, all punctuated by the occasional purchase of a couple of peacocks.

How innocent.

How utterly naive.

He didn't known true suffering then. He didn't known he would be made to go _weeks_ without getting to so much as _look_ at his hair-nourishing potion or his self-adjusting comb. (The Dark Lord seems to always keep him busy with frankly preposterous tasks that he suspects are specifically designed to serve the dual purpose of consuming his time until he hasn't a single minute left for body care, and drive home just how low he's fallen out of his Lord's graces).

Now, in the shambles of his terminally ruined reputation, he's living a life he'd never wish on even his most loathed enemy. ( _Well._ Maybe on Weasley... And, come to think of it, Parkinson. That scheming bastard. Also _Mulciber_. Mulciber truly deserves this – )

He is a hostage in his own manor. The halls his ancestors once walked, sullied by a cohort that might shame hell's denizens in both appearance and temperament. The elves are running themselves ragged to try and keep the devastation contained. Lucius honestly has no idea how he'll face his ancestors in the afterlife – a problem which is becoming more and more relevant with every day that passes.

Having the Dark Lord dispose of his house as a headquarters was truly the worst decision Lucius had ever made. But at a time when he was in need of salvaging his standing after indirectly causing the destruction of a powerful Horcrux and failing his task so spectacularly at the Ministry, a compromise was necessary.

Regrettable, but necessary.

_Well_...

Alright.

It was never his choice.

He was in Azkaban when the Dark Lord moved in. He returned to find filthy slobs everywhere and the Dark Lord lounging in his chair. But indulging in fantasies of self-determination and free will is the only way he has left to stay sane. Or whatever the definition of sane is these days, anyway. Lucius can't know – he's pretty sure he hasn't laid eyes on a sane person in over two years.

Sometimes he has moments of clarity in which he realizes that _of course_ he hasn't – he's holed up with a lunatic whose greatest ambition appears to be child murder, and a group of people who willingly follow him. That's hardly going to make for an environment that promotes healthy minds – and that's without counting his dear sister in law. Bella halves the average sanity rate of any gathering just by herself.

The point is, his manor is now the base of operations of the Dark side, and as such it houses basically every person and creature fighting for them. His house is overrun by all manner of vermin and scum, every room available occupied and quickly turning into a hovel.

But even in the middle of these anguishing facts, what causes him the most sorrow is his daily hair care routine, and the sheer impossibility of keeping up with it. Even shortened to a measly fifty minutes, the sheer number of people in the manor makes it impossible to remain undisturbed for even that lenght of time.

One time Macnair actually explodes the wall because Lucius is 'hogging the bathroom'. Nevermind that it is the literal middle of the night, and that _this is his house!_

“Is – Are you – right in front of me?” he asks disjointedly very aware of the loud ' _sssshhhh'_ sound coming from the toilet. Macnair is just going at it, just right there, in front of the crumbled down wall (through which Yaxley is staring, a bit confused, clearly caught mid-step), in front of Lucius himself, who is now floundering, with his wet hair still dripping from where he's holding them to the side of his head. “Just – right there?”

Macnair half-turns. Sneers. Then pulls out his wand (the wooden one) and just flicks Lucius through the _other_ wall.

The reason he has to share bathrooms with the unwashed plebeians is that his own personal bathroom has been taken over by the Dark Lord. He's forced to use the other, smaller ones, in common with the general populace, who very likely is unable to even _spell_ the word 'hygiene'. They... don't appreciate the amount of time he spends in the bathroom, and like Macnair, have been very vocal about their feelings. (By which he means they've hexed him. A lot).

He c _ould_ barge in like the others do with him, and demand the use of a bathroom that is tchnically, _actually his,_ but he'd rather not add another layer of trauma to himself by laying eyes on a disrobed Grayback. Or – Merlin forbid – _Mulciber_. The mere thought threatens to make him pass out.

Even barricading himself in a bathroom and finally getting his hair conditioned and moisturized the way god and nature intended it isn't a possibility. Because the Dark Lord _took his wand_.

With a smugness that seems a little excessive, frankly, given the circumstances. It's not like Lucius has any sort of power anymore. But now he can't even defend himself from the beasts roaming his own home. He can't even secure himself some time for taking care of his hair in his own bloody bathroom.

His hair... Oh, his poor hair. Once so luscious, now it looks like a particularily oily mound of old hay.

Well... probably.

He can't say for sure, as someone destroyed all of his mirrors (they can't all have been smashed by accident. One or two, sure, four or five, why not, six or seven, given his new housemates, he wouldn't be surprised. But all _fifty-six_? That's on purpose. That kind of mean-spirited and heartless deed can only be carried out on purpose, and with a vegeance. Lucius is half-convinced it was the Dark Lord. Or Bella, as usual).

Anyway, it _feels_ like oily old hay. Stringy, dry and greasy all at once. At least, it felt like that the last time he dared to touch it. It was over a week ago, as right now he's quite positive he'd have a breakdown if his fingers came into contact with the terrible consistency his beautiful soft locks have fallen to. In fact, just thinking about it is making tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes.

Okay, quickly, something positive and happy to take his mind off his suffering... something bright and nice, something like....

...Death.

Oh yes, now _there_ is a nice thought.

“What are you smiling about, dear?” Narcissa whispers to him with a tiny, terrified smile. She wants to get him back to neutral or cowering again, and for good reason: his continued health depends on how well he manages to be one with the furniture. Attracting attention will only make his life worse – though he's starting to doubt that's possible.

(He's been living in hell for months – since his hair care products went mysteriously missing, in fact. He suspects Bella).

Anyway, his wife is right – he has no business smiling to himself, especially not at the tense morning event that by some loose definition could be called breakfast. It involves eating, at least. Which is more of a tall order than it appears – how anybody could work up an appetite while in the presence of Avery's smell and Mulciber's excuse for a face is beyond Lucius. Not to mention the the Dark Lord's... everything.

“It's nothing, dear,” he whispers back, assuming a more appropriate expression. It's not hard – by now the abject fear is likely etched permanently on his face.

Even while nudging him away from a painful death, Narcissa looks slightly resentful at the possibility of Lucius enjoying something, even a mere thought, while she is clutching at straws to keep going.

At least, this what he assumes.

It's been a coulple of decades since their marriage, but he still can't really read her. She once smiled at him as she told him how handsome the new Abraxas horses were, what an interesting thing to spend all that money on, especially considering he already had four, and Draco was bound to _absolutely_ love them. Not two minutes later, he'd found belladonna in his tea. Enough for him to notice immediately and stop drinking. She continued to smile calmly at him even through his spluttering, and Lucius has since started to clear any hefty expense with her beforehand.

So really, she could be thinking anything right now.

Breakfast passes in awkward silence, broken only by Bella's reckless and revolting attempts at drawing the Dark Lord into a conversation. Lucius manages not to vomit into his teacup, but it's a very near thing. He envies Severus his Hogwarts position with an intensity he hadn't thought possible. But at this point, he'd put up with all of the dirty-blooded rabble, with all the – ugh – _children_. Hell, he'd even put up with _Draco_ right now.

“Lucius,” the Dark Lord speaks, breaking the stiff silence. There's a glint of malice in his eyes, which never bodes well. Lucius freezes. “You look rather frazzled, my friend. Could perhaps our presence here be the cause?”

He gestures expansively around the table to clarify the use of the word 'we'. _Do all these dirty murderers bother you, Lucius? Do the insane werewolf or the blood-thirsty scum make you uncomfortable?_

“Far from it, my Lord. I can only hope that my small contribution can be of some use,” he's actually surprised the words make it past his teeth at all – they're so violently untrue that he almost finds it offensive how easily they come out. It feels like his tongue should be on fire at the very least. “I am simply overwhelmed by this honor you chose to bestow upon me, my Lord,”

His Master looks like he doesn't believe him, which only a blind, deaf and not very bright child would, at this point. He also looks indulgent – good. As long as the Dark Lord finds him amusing, he'll keep his life.

“If that is so, Lucius, then I have a task for you – this being your house, I believe you to be the most qualified person for the job,”

“My Lord?”

“Wormatail. I've not seen him lately. Fetch him for me. You have until lunch,”

Lucius' mouth doesn't fall open, but only because he was expecting this. He just murmurs his servile assent while everybody around him laughs uproariously at the humiliating order. Lucius bears it stoically – it's hardly the first time it's happened – and just thinks about how nice it would be if a giant asteroid collided with the earth and smashed it to bits.

  
  


Two and a half hours later, Narcissa is frowning at him, her lips pursed and her wand held tight in her hand. He has already tried to borrow it, but it doesn't respond to him at all. ('Doesn't respond' might be putting it gently – one second in his hand and it starts emitting waves of heat so strong that he's forced to let go immediately. The first attempt gave him burns on the entirety of his palm, like he pressed his hand into a sizzling frying pan).

“No – look,” he whispers furiously, “It's more like – ” he gestures with his hand, trying to explain the sharp yet smooth movement the spell requires. Narcissa tries again, but it's like this is the first time she's casting it, which cannot possibly be. She looks at him in irritation, and he throws his hands up.

“Honestly, dear? I thought we were on the same wavelength here!” he says, deeply confused and perturbed, “How is it possible you can't cast a half-decent _Bellus Capellus_ when your hair looks so suspiciously nice even as our lives are falling apart?”

She keeps fowning at him. “I... wash them,”

“You – no spells? No potions? _At all?_ ”

“I suppose they might be naturally like this,”

“What? No,” he says automatically. It just can't be. How has he never known about this? Also _how_? With that coloration and texture, her hair looks as far from 'natural' as Bella is from 'well-adjusted'. “That's not – how – ?”

She lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “Genetics?”

“But – but I – ”

She pats his shoulder in what is probably more physical contact than they've had in the past ten years. “Not the moment for a nervous collapse, Lucius,” she reminds him. “The rat might wake at any moment,”

He turns to regard Wormtail, who is slumped into a chair, tied up inside an _Incarcerous_ and knocked out by a _Stupefy_. Lucius can't help but think, of course Narcissa can cast _those_ spell with clinical perfection. He still can't get over the fact that she doesn't use any products for her hair. Everyone knows there's something very wrong with the members of House Black, but to _this_ degree?

Still, Wormtail is like a ticking bomb – he's sure to reveal Lucius' indiscretions without blinking. They better get done before he wakes up.

Narcissa takes a deep breath, and tries the spell again. By the fifth iteration, his hair feels slightly better than it has in weeks. It's nothing earth-shattering – if only he could get his hands on _his_ wand, even for just a few minutes... – but when he gingerly brings himself to put the very tips of his fingers to the strands, they're definitely a bit less oily than they were half an hour ago.

After that he has to bring Wormtail to the Dining Hall by hand, because this is his life now. Terrible choices, terrible hair, and the increasing likelihood of a hernia of the disk. He was raised to wither away artistically on a Victorian chair with a book in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. He's really not built for this.

He manages to drag, kick and coerce the vile rat into the Dark Lord's presence. His Master sits at the head of the table as always – Lucius manages to ignore the thought that _he_ used to sit there once upon a time – and his followers are already all seated around the mahogany splendor that also doesn't deserve any of this.

Lucius endures a few cracks about the importance of getting one's hands dirty and about his new role as the janitor. There's only to hope he won't be made to _clean_ anytime soon. Although, can one even do that without a wand? Seems unlikely.

After that the attention focuses on Wormtail, and Lucius can go sit down. The slight improvement to the condition of his hair has already worked wonders for his mood – he's able to weather any and all taunts thrown his way, secure in the knowledge that at least his hair is looking better. Narcissa will soon improve at casting _Bellus Capellus_ , and one of these days his hair will be an unparalleled wonder of beauty, volume and silkiness once more.

The fantasy is so close, so intense, that he can almost feel himself salivating.

The Dark Lord is taunting Pettigrew about sending him back to Severus as a servant, and seems pretty absorbed. Lucius tries to be casual as he picks up his spoon – silver, ornate, also deserving better than to be handled by this rabble – and discreetly inspects his reflection in the smooth metal.

The hair is a marked improvement since yesterday, but his skin is truly a fright. Moisturizing has been difficult under the circumstances. He's still the best looking person here though, even despite everything, and that at least is something.

He's approaching something close to a good mood when – of course – awful reality comes crashing down on him, raining misery on his head. In this case it happens literally, as his head and face are suddenly drenched in some kind of liquid.

He doesn't need to raise his head and look, but he does anyway, and is faced with the picture of Bella, one hand braced on the table, leaning dangerously towards him from a few seats over. Her other hand is still in the air, still holding the wine glass upside down by way of two black-nailed fingers hooked around the stem. She is also directing a nasty smile his way, in the process making the experience somehow a little bit worse by making him look directly at her half-rotted teeth.

“Oops,” Bella says very deliberately, as Lucius freezes with his mouth slightly open. The wine has already permeated his hair, and drops of it are trickling down his forehead. The smell is strong and thick, and his brain can't seem to makes sense of the fact that it's _in his hair_. It stops and starts, refusing to accept the truth of the matter, and Lucius remains perfectly still and slightly gaping.

It must be very evident, because along with the snickers he hears in a faraway sort of way, Narcissa is shaking his arm and looking very alarmed indeed.

“Lucius, dear? It would seem as though you are not breathing...? Please regain you composure...”

His brain is still torn between two words and the inability to make sense of their connection. Hair. Wine. Hair. Wine. _Hair._ He feels his chin spasm – he might start sobbing right now, in front of every cursed piece of trash occupying his Dining Hall. He might, in fact, actually start sobbing in the Dark Lord's presence.

He feels himself stand up, but the instinct to flee the scene abandons him once he takes in the way the Dark Lord's eyes are fixed on him. If the man had eyebrows, one of them would be raised right now.

“Something you would like to say, Lucius?” he says coldly, “Or were you perhaps about to do something irrevocably stupid, such as leaving without my permission?”

“Could I... could I be excused, then, my Lord?” he manages to say, somehow, without weeping. “I don't feel – ”

“No,”

The word is sharp, precise, but the relish with which it is spoken betrays the sadistic amusement the Dark Lord is finding in his plight. For a moment even the one-syllable word refuses to compute, and Lucius remains standing, acutely aware of every dark red drop staining his hair and dripping down his back. A sound escapes him. A tiny, high-pitched sound that comes directly from his soul.

“Yes, Lucius?”

He sees Narcissa shake her head and furiously mouth 'Sit down' through clenched teeth, and does so mechanically, saying the appropriate platitudes and apologies. He still can't quite bring himself to eat, though. Or do much more than stare wide-eyed into the middle distance.

“Malfoys,” he hears Bella observe mockingly, “Always so fucking dramatic,”

Which is truly rich, coming from her. _His_ ancestors didn't have an entire room dedicated to the collection and display of their house elves' decapitated heads.

Right after lunch, Narcissa continues to demonstrate her disconcerting and unfortunate ineptitude with hair-related spells, going so far as to finally just cast an _Aguamenti_ in his face, shutting up his critiquing with a powerful jet of water.

“You think if I manage to sneak out and get myself to the Ministry, they'll agree to arrest me?” he asks glumly, making no move to dry himself. He could easily procure a towel, seeing as they're currently stealing a few minutes of privacy in the cramped laundry room, but he can't quite bring himself to.

“Doubtful. Especially as the Dark Lord has the Minister under Imperius,” she reminds him.

“Azkaban was so much better than this,” he confesses, “Especially after the Dementors left,”

“I know, dear. I _did_ bribe the guards to get you books to read and your favorite hair care potions,”

“Yes...” he says, remembering the sojourn that at the time had seemed awful. He'd happily give his firstborn to live like that now. His hair used to be so clean and soft. It used to smell like lavender and lilies. It used to –

A ragged sound leaved him, and before he realizes it he's grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer where Tinky keeps the sewing things.

“Dear – what are you – ”

“I'm cutting my hair!” he says resolutely, and a little hysterically, “I don't see why it should have to go through all of this – I should be the only one to suffer –”

“ _Lucius_ – ”

She manages to wrestle the scissors out of his hands, and then Vanishes them for good measure.

“There's – wine – ” he sobs incongruently into her shoulder. She's patting his arm soothingly, if a little awkwardly. They aren't used to all this touching. “My – my _hair –_ ”

“I know, dear, I know... This silly war'll be over soon, and then we can have control of our house again,” she murmures in the voice of someone whose sanity depends on that single thought, “Why, we can even buy a new one. A new manor somewhere else. France, maybe. We can have a garden, and horses, and as many peacocks as necessary...” the ones they used to keep met a very unfortunate end soon after the change in living arrangements. Lucius suspects Bella. “ ... And you can have however many hair potions you wish for, no matter the cost or quantity... ”

“R-Really?”

“Yes,” she promises, sighing a bit sadly. It _is_ becoming increasingly unlikely that the war will ever end, or that they'll be alive by that time, but the illusion is the only thing that keeps them both going.

But their moment ends too soon. A loud _crack_ echoes in the cramped little room, and Tinky appears out of thin air to whisper urgently, “Master and Mistress is being needed by the Dark Master! It is being very urgent!”

Lucius exchanges a pale look with his wife, and they sigh almost in unison.

Respite is over – back to hell it is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr if you want to say hi!


End file.
